Become a Sigh
tell me, darling, is there still a spark?
or only lonely ashes of the flames we knew?
should i go on whistling in the dark, serenade in blue?
- Serenade in Blue, (1942) Harry Warren and Mack Gordon
(made popular by Glenn Miller & His Orchestra featuring vocalist Ray Eberle with backing vocals by The Modernaires)
Become a Sigh
she sighs and i think perhaps
today is the day
i have contented myself as best i can
i have 'made do' as they say
with television and books and the gossip of friends
emotion and passion and the intimate touch of another
all by proxy
an echo of the real thing
i can touch myself
and imagine that you are touching me
i can be vivid and graphic
but it will always fall achingly short
in my own head all things may be perfect
detailed jewels; intricate patterns of actions
and perhaps that is the failing of my own fantasy
i cannot believe myself
it is the flaws which make the truth more real
the imperfections; the mistakes
they lend credence that reality surrounds my senses
she sighs and looks at me with soft eyes
and i remind myself that she is a reflection
of a reflection, of a reflection
all burning whirring digital transmittal
and faulty sluggish organics
a copy
through one lens, once recorded
paired down to frame rates and pixels
bit codes
forced through void-cold satellites, miles of wires, and endless splicing
the gentle tug of a smile creeping onto her face
at 28 frames per second
and reflecting through the lenses of my eyes
while my optic nerves chitter and jibe to my brain
in the strange language that only synapses speak
i gaze longingly all the same
and find myself bitter all over again
as the tips of my fingers brush the impassively smooth screen
to say nothing of the sonic imperfections inflicted upon me
by ears and equipment that will always
always
be a subpar offering of fading feedback and static
she is shyly smiling at me and i return her smile
i sigh and ask after her activities, her family, her plans
i would rather ask if the stars glitter to her the same way
does the air smell salty or tangy or smoggy
but i would never get any satisfying answers
and i cannot begin to voice how i wonder
if i were, where she is, would it be the same
or would that too, for its observation, and all my trouble
be changed so radically that i could not recognize my dream within it
she sighs again
we are silent
and the image degrades